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If schools could talk, they’d say testing mania hurts kids

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To the public school: I’m sorry for what you’ve been turned into. I’m sure if you could speak,
you would talk about the good old days — days when kids were allowed to learn and teachers were
allowed to teach. I’m sorry people with all the money and power are making decisions that our
teachers and school boards should be making.

You were once a proud institution. When I was a child, you were a place where I learned my love
for reading and my thirst for answering “why.”

Nowadays, the children entering your doors don’t have time to discover what they love, what
drives them or even how to think with common sense. They’re too busy learning how to pass the next
big test, too busy trying to draw diagrams explaining answers that took them two seconds to figure
out in their heads.

You know all too well, old friend, how the children’s eyes lack twinkle as they pass through
your halls, how the confidence is draining from their faces.

Common Core is wearing them down, making them doubt their intelligence. You see the 8- and
9-year-old boys and girls with their brows tense with worry, their minds full of anxieties they
were never intended to face, worrying what it will be like if they don’t pass the test that “
guarantees” they’re smart enough to go on to the next grade level.

Grand old school, you see the weariness on your teachers’ faces as they enter classrooms where
great things once happened. You remember the excitement they once had for seeing the light bulb go
off, the very reason they became teachers.

But now there is no time for such moments. That wouldn’t be “measurable,” which means it’s not
important in eyes of the state. Every possible moment is spent focusing on prepping their students
for testing. Common Core stops for no one.

Most of all, I’m sorry you’ll be missing out on my son for at least the next few years. He’s a
great kid, passionate, clever and smart, and with a sense of humor like no other. You see, old
school, I cannot sit by and watch the twinkle leave his eye, the confidence fall from his face, the
worry and anxiety take up residence on his brow.

I will not tell him how your leader, the state superintendent, called him “illiterate” because
of a number he got on a test on one given day.

It’s OK, though. You’ve seen him the last four years, learning, reading, writing and making
friends. You’ve seen the countless A’s and B’s he’s achieved on assignments. You know his worth is
not measured by the results of one test.

The teachers in your classrooms know this. I am going to allow him to flourish and shine in the
environment of a school where Common Core and high-stakes testing have not yet shown their ugly
faces.

I am not giving up the fight for you and for the children and teachers in your halls. I will
continue to let my legislators and state leaders know how I feel about your mistreatment. Please
don’t forget the good old days; most of all I will pray for their quick return.